


Counting Tiles

by DigitalKiss



Category: Teen Titans (Animated Series), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Inhibitors, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 10:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11644314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DigitalKiss/pseuds/DigitalKiss
Summary: Police stations make Jinx sick - but what's she to do, when her older brother Stiles of the FBI forgets his gun?





	Counting Tiles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Avamarie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avamarie/gifts).



_Police Station._ The only times the witch has ever been in a police’s station is when she’s arrested, clunky collars or heavy handcuffs that cover her entire hands keeping her magic just out of reach. The officers always looked at her with pity, disappointment, or fear - most of the time, it’s some combination thereof.  It’s always the same procedure: grab her arms and shoulders, push her roughly into the station. Ignore the blatant staring of the people in the lobby ( what, did these ass wipes have a problem with pink hair, I don’t need magic to break your jaw, let go of me! ) and pull her into a private room. Another officer is waiting there - sometimes it’s the tired man who smells of powdered milk and vomit, other times it’s the lady who writes down her name with the wrist that had been broken and set wrong. 

“Jinx” They write, and ask her for her real name. She tells them she doesn’t have one, and they sigh. They think she’s lying, that she’s being difficult.  _Fuck you too._  They don’t make her change, because her costume does nothing anyway, and put her in an isolated cell.  Ever since her cell mate was carried out of the cell with a broken nose, concussion, and chipped teeth, they keep her away from the others. The witch sits down on the cot and stares at her inhibitors. They’re ugly, heavy, and make her hands hurt.  Each time, she tries to hex them off.  Imagine them cracking into pieces so that she can wrap her arms around her legs. It never works, and she ends up counting each annoying off-white tile ( 560, 561, a total of 562 tiles and 6 broken ones ) until the bars open again. Then it’s off to Iron Heights, where she escapes during transit with more and more creative ways.

The police station makes her feel sick. She avoids them as much as possible. Even seeing the building from the outside makes her skin crawl - the heavy metal weighing her down and giving her a migraine, the rough grips of the officers that steer her towards the tiles. Their fingers burn into her shoulders, and as her age increases, their compassion decreases.  Tasers work almost as well as sedatives, and they have anklets now too to fend off her flexibility. They know her, know her moves, know the limits of her powers.  Her villain identity is quite prominent in their database; what she lacks in severity she makes up in sheer numbers.

 _But that's in the past, right?_   The witch stares at the police station through the windshield, lips pressed in a tight line.  In the passenger’s seat is a wrapped package, set on top of a lunchbox. The charms around her wrist help hide her telltale pink hair and pale skin, but the paranoia and worry are still in the edge of her mind.  Her throat convulses nervously as she swallows, and the radio buzzes static for a few seconds as her magic slips out. There are cameras here, she’s sure of it.  The charms don’t hide her facial structure, and if she gets caught now, she’s getting locked into one of those cells you can’t escape on your own. Even if Batman knows her true alignment, she’s not counting on him to bail her ass out. 

But he forgot his damn gun. What if he goes out on patrol and something happens?  she can see him reaching for his holster, coming up empty, then backing up with nothing to protect himself besides a stupid stun gun. Like that was going to hold up against Gotham’s worst. 

She grits her teeth and snatches the parcel and brown bag next to her. This was ridiculous. The enchanting sorceress, unable to walk into a stupid building full of vulnerable breakable blue non-metas?  The car door slams shut behind her as she marches across the parking lot stiffly. An officer is walking out when she approaches the door and looks at her. His eyes widen.  She’s about to hex him and make a run for it when he smiles, and just holds the door open for her.  with a muttered thanks, she ducks underneath his arm and faces the blast of the AC. 

“Um.”  Her voice is cracked and strained, but the lady at the front desk looks up. There’s a moment of silence before she realizes the the other is waiting impatiently for her to continue.  “I’m looking for Stiles? Stiles Stilinski? I have a package for him.” At the mention of his name, the lady perks up - her face softens into a considerably nicer expression as she picks up the phone and presses an extension.  “A girl is at the front desk for you.  Okay.  Have a seat, sweetie.”

Somewhat light-headed, she sits down gingerly on one of the blue plastic benches. From her spot, she can see the door. She can see a pale child, no more than 5, kicking an officer’s shins as hard as she can. He hisses and lets her go for a moment; there’s a scuffle, and another officer grabs the girl by her black dress and clips a pair of cuffs on her wrist. The walls shake with the sound of buzzing magic, and her eyes glow briefly pink before someone comes out with a sedative, murmuring something that could have been an apology.

“Iris?” She lets out an undignified squeak, jumping out of her seat. Turns around to see Stiles striding over to her, a silly grin on his face. He scoops her into a hug, and she wonders if he can feel the little tremors of anxiety and paranoia running up her spine. Probably. Any sentence that started with _does Stiles know_ always ended in a probably yes.  When he lets go, she’s calmed down somewhat, fingertips scraping against the back of his uniform before dropping to the package still on the seat. “You forgot your gun, Mr. FBI.  And lunch.” 

When she leaves a few minutes later ( he’s busy on a homicide case, but as far as both of them can tell, it’s thankfully not supernatural or supervillain related ), the lady at the front desk smiles warmly at her.  Tells her that her name is Stacy, and that it was good to finally meet the girl Stilinski talks about.  Asks her for her name. 

She does have one.  Her name is Iris.  And for the first time in her life, she opens the front door of the police station and walks back out.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a tumblr drabble. This ship is a little unusual, but I really liked this reflection for Jinx. Stiles Stilinski (written by Avamarie) is her adoptive older brother and works in Gotham's FBI unit. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, comments and kudos are always appreciated!


End file.
